dear diary...

As of the moment I am averaging about 1 blog post a month. One blog post! What a sad, sad statistic. You would think that given the number of thoughts that run through a person's head in a single day, putting them down on (virtual) paper would be easy. But that's the thing... not everything you think, not everything you do, not everything you say is worth broadcasting to the world. Because honestly, sometimes no one is all that interested.

So why do I even blog? Before Passionately Pretending I had attempted to own virtual territory at least 2 other times. That doesn't even count Friendster, Picasa, Facebook and who-know-what-else-I've-signed-up-for-but-no-longer remember. When my last blog fell into neglect, I said I was done. I told myself I'm going to protect my privacy and clean up my digital footprint. I didn't think anyone was clamoring for my writing anyway.


So why did I choose to do this all over again?


I started toying with the idea of blogging when I watched Electroshadow being developed. The idea of putting yourself out in the world and having people read your work was an alluring thought. Knowing that there would be a place where your opinion could be voiced and maybe even matter was empowering. As I listened to a dreamer's dreams, it made me think of what my own dreams could be, and wondered if I attempted it, could my writing find its place in the world?

But what ultimately drove the decision was when I went rummaging through my long lost junk in our provincial home early this year. Having lived away from home for the last 15 years, most of our knick knacks and assorted trinkets have been stored away to gather dust. Periodically, my mother reminds us to look through them and see what we want to keep and discard. During one such sojourn down memory lane, I came across a collection of notebooks and some haphazard pieces of paper.

There, scribbled on the back of these notebooks, or on torn out notebook paper, or loose stationary of varying designs were written my random thoughts.

pieces of me

It seemed that, at varying points in my life, wherever I was, when I had a thought and the thought was big enough to disturb me, I would grab whatever material I had on hand and write. I would write my observations, my realizations, my experiences. I would write because writing made it real. I would write because writing gave my thought a semblance of sense, if not structure.

Some of what I wrote were deeply personal to me, while others were simply meant to capture the essence of that moment. I am sure that what I found at home that day was only a portion of what I have written in my lifetime. Many have likely been lost or thrown away because it had never been important to preserve them. Their purpose was to filter the thoughts of the time. Now in my 30's, re-reading what has been left behind, I realize they weren't just for me then, it was for the me in the future.

In my youth I kept a diary, treasures I have kept safe until today.

my first attempt at chronicling my life

vol. 2 - with just as bad handwriting

still at vol 2 but with better handwriting

(contents blurred to protect privacy. hahahaha!)

As I grew up, keeping a diary fell to the wayside. Entries came few and far between. When I completely filled my second volume, I thought I had outgrown the need for a notebook and pen. I had a brief daliance with digital journaling (both attempts have resulted in entries now forever lost to me) and then there were the mini blogs and the habit of jotting down my life on tenous surfaces.

Seeing, literally, pieces of me and my life scattered everywhere made me decide that it might be a good idea to have a single place to keep those pieces. I now have a small notebook that holds my more personal musings, the ones that were never meant to be shared.

a journal of my 30's

Then I have this: Passionately Pretending. Where I pretend that somehow my thoughts matter.


If not to me now, then to the me in the future.